'Twas the Day Before the Day Before Christmas
For days, now, when you came home from university, one thing or another about the house would be different. You were taking exams by day, studying madly at your desk in the library by night. But every late afternoon as you walked through the iron rail front gate, something would be different.
One day, little electric candles had appeared in all the windows of the house and they were glowing in the dusk as you walked the cobble-stone drive and circle to the big front porch. That day, there were juniper garlands draped in the large living room and on the front stair banister. Their fragrance was intoxicating. There were small pine trees with the little Italian lights along the upstairs hall. Garlands had been hung about the bay window casements in your room. Holiday arrangements were on all the mantles.
The next day, there were colored lights on the porch. A tall Silver Fir tree was being decorated by two ladies in the living room; one on a ladder. In their late twenties, they waved at you as you paused to wonder, smiling. But you hurried on to the library.
That evening, when one of them brought you tea on a silver tray, she introduced herself as Louise. She and her sister, Margaret, had taken up residence in the servant's wing. They were here to keep house. You didn't have time to ask more about it.
You were so busy, we barely had time to talk. A hug, a kiss. You were so tired by the time you came to bed, that you often fell asleep in my arms mid-sentence, talking about your day.
But day by day, one thing after another was changing. The house was becoming lighter, gayer. There were fresh flowers on the dining table, in the library, in your room. Each day the beds were made magically, the towels were always fresh.
Your clothes were cleaned and pressed and returned to the drawers where you put them. When you took a brief peek, you could see that even the lingerie you had bought had been ironed and carefully returned to their drawer exactly how you had placed them. You blushed a little bit thinking of Louise or Margaret carefully taking care of your private, naughty things.
The solstice came, the longest night passed, and at last, the day before the day before Christmas, your studies were done. On your way home from school, you stopped with friends at the pub for a martini or two -- or three. You were elated and exhausted.
Your friends were all going to their various homes for the holidays, dispersing across the country. You were the only one staying in town.
"Aren't you going to be lonesome?" one of your fellow physics students asked.
"Don't feel sorry for her. She's got her gentleman-friend to keep her company." It was you friend Kristin. You shot her a warning scowl and she laughed. The gin was making her talkative.
"Oh yeah. You live at that old manse on the hill. You're friendly with that guy?"
"Oh, she's friendly all right."
"Shut - up - Kris. Yes, he's become my friend. And yes I'm hanging out there all Christmas break."
"Like I said, she's quite friendly." Kristin was a good friend but she could be merciless.
"Kris - shut - up. OK. Look at it this way, you guys. Last Christmas -- where were all of you? Right. We were freshmen. You all ran back to where ever you came from to see your families and boyfriends and girlfriends. Where was I? Right. You don't even know.
"You, Dan. You, Jamie. You Kris -- whose supposedly my friend. None of you know.
"Where was I?
"Well, I was in my dorm room. I was here, in this town, in my dorm room, a-frilling-lone. I got myself a frilling turkey grinder for dinner. None of you even sent me a card from wherever the frill you went home to.
"So this Christmas you still get to go back home, OK? -- but in contrast, this year as opposed to last year, I'll be here, but I get to stay in a place that looks like a Norman Rockwell with a really great guy who treats me like I'm worth something more than the postage stamps you guys didn't use sending me Christmas greetings last year. Give me a break." You were genuinely angry and the hurt of last year's loneliness stung like it was new all over again.
